Harry Potter and the Phoenix Prophecy
by whikky
Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts is over and the Dark Lord has fallen, but the Pureblood faction retains control of the government. With Lucius Malfoy as minister, Harry Potter has been tossed in Azkban for life. The Light may have won the battle, but they have lost the war. What happens next will hinge on the actions of the Phoenix.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** **This is supposed to be DH-compliant, but ignores the epilogue. I am planning this to basically be a more brutal Count of Monte Cristo-esque book 8. Here's the thing though, I have read so much fanfiction (like, a fucking ridiculous amount) that some stuff may not exactly be as canon-compliant as I am going for. So this is obviously going to be slightly AU.**

 **I have no pairings planned _yet_ , but there will be one. That being said, I will not being doing triads, harems, or anything like that. And since I absolutely despise Rowling's canon pairings, those will not happen either. **

**I am going to include some things I wish Rowling had explored more in her books, like animagi (how can you not have Harry desperate to become one in canon? are you kidding me?). Anyway, I hope there are enough original ideas to make this entertaining.**

 **I have a rough outline of where I want this to go and how I'm going to get there, but I also like feedback and am not averse to ideas. I'm writing this as much for you as I am for me.**

 **Without further ado, I give you the beginning of Harry Potter and the Phoenix Prophecy.**

 **-Whikky**

* * *

 **Trial of the Century Over!**

 **Boy-Who-Lived Guilty!**

 _In a decisive move, the Wizengamot, under the leadership of our esteemed Minister of Magic Lucius Malfoy, overwhelmingly voted to convict Harry Potter on multiple counts of treason and murder yesterday afternoon. The events following the so-called Battle of Hogwarts have been extensively covered over the preceding weeks, and the Boy-Who-Killed's trial was largely considered a formality. Long listed as undesirable number one, the DMLE received an anonymous tip and arrived in force with a complement of civic-minded citizens of good standing to Hogwarts to arrest Harry Potter for inciting rebellion. Refusing to surrender peacefully, Mr. Potter managed to murder, in cold blood, many noble members of our proud society. With his life sentence in Azkaban now official, hopefully our society can now begin its recovery…_

Lucius Malfoy set the Daily Prophet down on his desk. Looking around the opulent office of the Minister of Magic, he smiled smugly. It'd been a month since the battle that took his master. Not that he had much to complain about; Lucius Malfoy had still won in the end. Despite the death toll, the Pureblood faction still retained control of the government. And Malfoy had used that control to instill himself as Minister. Already laws were being passed to relegate mudbloods and blood-traitors to insignificance. Soon, they would be little better than magical creatures in the eyes of the law.

"Mr. Malfoy? Sybil Trelawney is here as requested," his secretary said through the enchanted mirror on his desk. It was a truly wonderful piece of magic that his staff had managed to appropriate and reverse engineer from the bag of tricks Potter had on him when he was arrested. Every department head in the Ministry now had one in their office.

Lucius quirked an eyebrow. "Thank you Miss Davis, send her in."

"Yes sir," she spoke, followed by the connection being cut. A moment later the door opened and in walked the disheveled form of the former Hogwarts Divinations professor flanked by two of his more sinister looking henchmen.

"Miss Trelawney, thank you for coming." Malfoy drawled in a cold, aristocratic manner.

Sybil Trelawney wasn't a sophisticated woman. She wasn't particularly brave. Miss Sybil Trelawney was more of a scatterbrained crackpot. She looked around the office she now found herself in with a distinctly confused air, as if she couldn't quite figure out how she'd gotten there. Her mannerisms were manic, skittish. She resembled a frightened and thoroughly beaten puppy more than a former professor at one of the world's premier magical schools.

Lucius cleared his throat in thinly veiled annoyance. She jerked her gaze away from the shriveled hand on the book shelf behind his desk and seemed to notice the other occupant of the room for the first time. She withdrew further into herself in obvious fear.

"Mr.… Mr. Malfoy. Minister. Sir," She mumbled.

"Do you know why I asked you to come here?" Pure malice dripped from his tone like honey.

Sybil Trelawney recoiled further and opened her mouth as if to speak, but only an undignified terrified squeak came out. She backed up a step, breathing heavily in terror. "I… I don't… I don't know…"

He took a step closer in obvious threat, but stopped abruptly in confusion.

Standing straight now, with her eyes rolled into the back of her head, her voice was hollow. Devoid of emotion or inflection. " _A Phoenix rises… From the ashes of defeat he will visit vengeance upon all those that wronged him… The world as we know it will fall to ash… Whether it rises again or blows away in the wind will rest on the choice of one… The only one with the power to stop him will be too blinded by grief to act… The fate of our world hinges on the Phoenix and the Raven."_

Sybil slumped against her captors, looking exhausted before looking around wildly. Lucius hardly noticed, frowning as he was in thought. He had wanted to speak with the professor to finally learn the full contents of the original prophecy, purely out of curiosity. This, though, was beyond his wildest hopes. What could it mean though?

Looking up, he finally took notice again of the other occupants of the room. This would not do at all. Flicking his wand quickly into his hand he fired off three killing curses in the time it took to register the surprise in the eyes of his minions. Activating his mirror he spoke succinctly, "Miss Davis, have the Aurors come and clean up the mess in my office." Cutting the connection without waiting for a reply, he sat down at his desk to think about what he'd just heard.

 _Who is the Phoenix?_ He wondered. _Could it be the Dark Lord will rise again? Unlikely. Potter seemed sure of the Dark Lord's final death, though he couldn't put it past his former master to have one further trick up his sleeve. Could it be Potter himself? Perhaps. He'd have to escape Azkaban first, and all of his support has been detained, killed, or had betrayed him at the end. And Draco seemed sure that Potter was a mediocre wizard at best. Not much of a threat in any case._ Pausing, Lucius stroked the end of his cane in contemplation, completely unaware of the bodies being removed from his office. _I could be the Phoenix in this case. We were defeated at Hogwarts, but I came out on top. Rising from the ashes of defeat so to speak. And I have been visiting vengeance upon all of my enemies. Yes, that fits best I think. Now to decipher the rest…_


	2. Chapter 2

Azkaban Island is a dreary place. Sheer cliffs battered constantly by the tumultuous waves below. Most of the island is utterly impassable save a small dock and a steep staircase carved directly into the stone face of the adjacent rock wall.

The air on the island is oppressive. Its weight is a heavy thing that would begin to leach away hope even without the many hundreds of dementors slowly swirling in the air above like dark clouds. The chill immediately seeps directly into the bones, breaths frosting with every exhale.

The massive stone fortress is an ugly, blocky thing that covers most of the flat surface of the island. There are no windows to mar the flat surface of its walls, no towers or buttresses. The stones that make up the island prison are perfectly aligned, leaving grooves too small to even fit a fingernail. The only minor imperfections are the frost creeping along the stone edifice and the massive iron door that is the prison's only entrance.

The frost continues along the maze of hallways inside the building. The feeling of dread, of hopelessness, increases the closer you come to center of the dementors that increase steadily in number the closer you get to the center of the fortress. The chill increases as well, until it's all you feel. Until you forget completely what it ever felt like to be warm. The cold lives under your skin, freezing your bones and joints and muscles, needles poking every cell of your body almost like the _Cruciatus_ , but so much more unrelenting.

His cell, by order of the Minister himself, was as close to the center of the labyrinth as possible. The cold, damp stone floor leeches the warmth from his very bones, and by itself would be enough to cause the young man to shiver. Curled up in the corner of the cell, covered by a dirty, threadbare blanket, Harry Potter was surely going to lose his mind if he hadn't already.

Hope is a funny thing. It's fickle and dependent. It's the last bastion a man has to withstand just about any onslaught. For a man like Harry Potter, to whom tragedy clings like the damp blanket currently covering his shaking form, hope is all that's left. And when that tiny spark of hope is inevitably extinguished, what will remain of the would-be hero of the wizarding world?

 _A beautiful young mother begs for the life of her child before a bright green light fills the room…_

The memories are brutal. Plucked directly from his mind, cherry picked to cause the most damage, running like a horror movie nonstop through his damaged psyche.

 _A massive serpent chasing him through a forgotten chamber beneath an ancient school of magic…_

His own mind has been turned against him. The cold. The damp. The stone digging into his back. But it's the memories, the assault of every negative thing he has ever experienced, the knowledge that he'd failed and so many had died. So many will yet die.

 _Meaty fists striking his slight frame. So many occasions where he was just a little too slow. His cousin Dudley and his gang of hooligans grinning cruelly down on him as he's beaten almost daily…_

It's the memories that cause him to shiver. In pain or self-loathing or guilt. Or all of the above. There's enough of it to go around.

 _Sirius falling through the Veil, surprise permanently etched on his face. Tonks and Lupin, lying side by side. Peaceful in death. Fred, leaving behind a brother who will forever be lost without his other half…_

So many dead. The dementors remind him, on a never ending feedback loop, of every single one. Every face. And they are all his fault.

 _Tom Riddle in the Chamber. Voldemort in the graveyard rising from a cauldron. Voldemort firing a killing curse at him in the Forbidden Forest…_

Most of the memories cause him to whimper or moan piteously. Some cause him to cry for everything he'd lost and all the things he'd never had.

 _A redhead promising safety and sanctuary with the only family he'd ever known. Being cursed in the back as soon as he'd turned…_

But that memory was completely different. That memory was the catalyst. Despite Wormtail's betrayal of his parents, Harry had never expected it to happen to him. He discarded the hurt and betrayal the memory provoked, and wrapped the rage around himself like a cocoon. He wallowed in it, reveled in the chaotic peace of it. Allowed the warmth of it to thaw the chill in his bones and the ache in his heart. Harry Potter allowed himself to be remade in that place. Gone was the self-sacrificing hero. Gone was the blind follower, the foolishly trusting child. Harry Potter would rise again, he would escape this hell. And when he did, all those who wronged him would burn.

When Harry Potter screamed his wrath in that cold cell on Azkaban Island for all the world to hear, the very walls of the prison shook.


End file.
